


The Price of Success

by ShadowHaloedAngel



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Other, Torture (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowHaloedAngel/pseuds/ShadowHaloedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sephiroth was a perfect being, a hero, but noone ever paused to consider the price of that perfection, and the child who had paid it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Success

ShinRa's great general sat in his office, listening absently to the echoing tick of the clock falling into the silence of the room. The over-brightness of the standard issue desk lamp only cheapening the already drab furniture. There was no luxury here.

At this hour of the night, his was the only light on in the building, but somehow he preferred it that way, finding the silence and solitude more conducive to work.. He pulled the next file from his in-tray and began reading through the mass of paperwork. Mind only half-focussed on it, he thought through the day's events.

_The wind blew through his hair, making it wave and whip in its wake. He held Masamune before him and looked back, seeing the line of cadets copy his stance. The exhilaration rushed through his veins, making his head whirl with the authority. He smiled and shouted the orders, voice specially pitched to carry over the breeze. They followed without question, and he watched with a proud smile. These were his men. He was responsible for them, for their training, for their actions, and above all for their lives. He almost shivered with the pressure, but he had been born for this, trained for this. Much as it might strain him, it would never break him._

Even now, so many hours later, the memory of that day's instruction could raise a small smile to that carefully schooled, expressionless face. He turned over the next page of the file and continued studying his paperwork.

_After the morning's rigorous training it was lunchtime for the general and his troops. They walked to the mess hall together, not marching as a unit, but walking as a group, tied together by company decree and the unity born only by fire - through live combat. The men all talked and joked together, and the mood was light, cheerful, positive. They queued for lunch, none of them noticing that their beloved leader was absent from the line where the standard issue mush was unceremoniously dolloped out to everyone, splashing on their trays._

_Only the General and his second in command were not eating the regulation food. Zack had some dreadful fast-food creation which must have been deep-fried in its cardboard box, judging purely by the amount of grease seemingly dripping from the packaging. He tucked in with gusto, joking and gossiping with the others in the unit_.

_Sephiroth sat, as always, in lonely splendour, somehow detached from the group. While the others consumed massive portions of calorific yet balanced food to compensate for the harsh routines they inflicted on their bodies, he, the First class, had a smaller portion which he had prepared the night before according to the strict regulations governing his diet. While all around him the others were free to eat what they wished, he, by virtue of his status as Hojo's pride, lost his right to choose._

The General's eyes flickered uncertainly around the room, as if checking for the scientist himself. He quickly quashed those thoughts which bordered on resentment, flirting with rebellion. Hojo knew what was best for him, he always had. Sephiroth had no right to question him. He should be grateful. Without the scientist, he was nothing.

In a futile effort to distract himself and pretend those thoughts had never happened, he turned to the next page in the file, but truth be told he wasn't really absorbing the information now, which scared him. It was dangerous not to pay proper attention, failure could exact a terrible price.

When he looked back at the page, his mind offered up another scene of his day from its library, presenting it for analysis.

_It was afternoon now, and he was training in his private dojo. Naturally he followed the same training plan as the other First Classes, but Hojo insisted on additional hours over that. There were no excuses for sloppiness, errors or ignorance of technique. He was the best. He could not afford to make mistakes. Mistakes meant failure and failure meant price and punishment. He knew he was lucky. If he failed, Hojo would be right to terminate him. He had been reminded of that so often. He was lucky to still be alive, to have the chance to be the best, to prove his ability. He was the pinnacle of the original project's experimentation, but now he could be all too easily replaced. He couldn't let that happen. He had to be good, to be better, to be better than his best._

_He would spend hours training with every weapon until he felt ready to collapse from exhaustion, but he couldn't. Exhaustion was weak. He could not show weakness._

He paused now, staring blankly at the page, unable to see it past the unstoppable tide of memories. If crying had not been unnecessary, weak, disgusting, unacceptable, perhaps he would have had tears in his eyes, but the Demon of Wutai, the Steel General had no tears to shed.

_Earlier that evening had been the routine weekly visit to the labs. It was for his own good. He was the best, but only Hojo could make him better._

_First the injections, the glowing substances making his blood boil, running like acid through his veins. They were improving him, enhancing him. Without them he wouldn't be strong, wouldn't be fast, wouldn't be gifted. Without them he'd be nothing._

_Then the words which had terrified him._

_“Time for another examination Sephiroth...” the deranged scientist's voice rich with sadistic joy, curling around his stomach and choking it, making him feel sick._

_“Yes sir.” His voice was empty, as carefully blank as his face while the memories of his childhood flared up, roiling around him, almost drowning him in all-too-familiar terror as he disrobed according to the unspoken order while the Professor's face shone in sickly excitement._

_The torment had begun, the ice-cold scalpel pressed against his skin, the samples, the other 'tests' designed solely for the other's perverted satisfaction. But Sephiroth never questioned him. Hojo did what was best._

Sephiroth shot to his feet, his chair falling to the floor behind him with a clatter. He looked around, praying noone had seen that. Such behaviour was ridiculous, unacceptable, as if he were some paranoid teenager, incapable of defending himself, with no self-control, no reign over his thoughts.

He shook slightly with the strength of his emotion as he picked the chair up and replaced it under his desk with the acute precision present in all his actions. He closed the file and replaced it on his desk to read the next day, he was tired, that was all, he was completely rational, completely in control, just tired. He would be fine tomorrow.

He returned to his quarters, walking with his usual quiet confidence, no sign of his inner turmoil visible in his fluid, graceful movement.

When he reached them, he removed his leather coat, hanging it neatly on its hook before looking around the almost-familiar impersonal space where he lived. The clinically white walls were sinister with shadows, and he gulped subconsciously. He spun around, desperate to see something identifiable, but his heart raced as everything was overlaid by the sickening familiarity. Blood stains, tables, bright lights and cold, glinting steel. His hands went to his head, desperately panting in air through his fear as screams echoed through his mind.

He fumbled for the light switch and as the cheap neon flooded the rooms, chasing the shadows away, the last vision before his cat-like emeralds was a pair of unplaceable, terrified crimson eyes.

He swallowed, tightening his iron-grip on himself. Dinner. That would stop this madness. That was all he needed. He walked to the fridge, forcing himself to stay in control. He reached for the door before his eyes fell on the memo taped to the door. It sent a quiver of nervous anticipation down his spine. He pulled it off and read it.

_“Specimen S – your test results indicate you appear to have gained weight. I am most displeased. There will be further tests tomorrow. On those grounds you are forbidden dinner tonight and I have confiscated your supplies. You will report to the labs at 06:00 hours tomorrow. - Hojo”_

Sephiroth closed his eyes, feeling the tears of weakness threaten again. Once more he forced them back and turned to retire to bed. Sleep was his only possible refuge now, his only sanctuary.

He clambered into his bed, slipping under the thin blanket and closing his eyes, willing Morpheus to claim him quickly. Before long, he slept.

 

The noble figure of the General tossed and turned in restless sleep and he let out a soft cry.

_He was three, watching his father lean over a prone body on an examination table. A trickle of rust coloured fluid dripped onto the white tiled floor as he teased screams from the other's body. When he had asked what was going on, his father had something about an autopsy. That couldn't be right though, he must have misheard. An autopsy was what happened to a dead person to find out why they'd died. Corpses didn't scream._

_Five now, and the sallow-skinned, greasy face of his father was leaning over him, whispering to him that this was for his own good. He had bitten his lip, trying not to make a sound, even though he wanted to cry. The Professor would beat him for that., said that it meant he wasn't grateful for his work, all the trouble he was going to to make him better. It wasn't that he was ungrateful, he just wished his father understood that it hurt. He knew he was weak, and he was sorry, but he just struggled to deal with the pain._

_Eight and held in the first pair of gentle arms he had ever known in his life. Even if their owner was supposedly dead, he was the only one to show Sephiroth any tenderness, any comfort, even when they were both left broken by the scientist's ministrations._

The supposedly icy general's facade had disappeared completely as he lay in his bed, emerald eyes widened and intensified as tears gleamed on his cheeks. He looked around, eyes still that of the terrified child he had never had the chance to be.

With a child's eyes he looked around and whimpered as he realised the vulnerability of his position. He leapt from the bed and scampered to the corner, crouching on the floor, wrapping his wing around himself, looking desperately around for any hint of a threat. As he drew shuddering breaths, chest heaving, he slowly calmed, regaining his senses. He knew he wasn't threatened here, he was safe, but the spectre of the labs still hung over him.

Feeling worthless, broken, exhausted, his head fell to his knees. As sleep claimed him, he saw a pair of concerned crimson eyes and felt the ghost of a tender touch on his cheek.  
When the mask had vanished, the truth was revealed – the hero ruled and broken by the whim of another's insanity and sadistic megalomania.

The price of success was his humanity.


End file.
